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About this poet

Eve L. Ewing is a poet, essayist, and sociologist of education. She is the author of the poetry collection Electric Arches (Haymarket Books, 2017) and works as an assistant professor in the School of Social Service Administration at the University of Chicago. She lives in Chicago.

I come from the fire city.

i come from the fire city / fire came and licked up our houses, lapped them up like they were nothing / drank them like the last dribbling water from a concrete fountain / the spigot is too hot to touch with your lips be careful / fire kissed us and laughed / and even now the rust climbs the walls, red ivy / iron fire and the brick blossoms florid / red like stolen lipstick ground down to a small flat earth / stand on any corner of the fire city, look west to death / the red sun eats the bungalows / the fire city children watch with their fingers in their mouths / to savor the flaming hots or hot flamins or hot crunchy curls or hot chips / they open the fire hydrants in the fire city and lay dollar store boats in the gutters / warrior funeral pyres unlit

Copyright © 2017 Eve L. Ewing. “I come from the fire city.” originally appeared in Electric Arches (Haymarket Books, 2017). Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2017 Eve L. Ewing. “I come from the fire city.” originally appeared in Electric Arches (Haymarket Books, 2017). Used with permission of the author.

 

Eve L. Ewing

Eve L. Ewing

Eve L. Ewing is a poet, essayist, and sociologist of education. She is the author of the poetry collection Electric Arches (Haymarket Books, 2017) and works as an assistant professor in the School of Social Service Administration at the University of Chicago. She lives in Chicago.

by this poet

poem

looking over the plums, one by one
lifting each to his eyes and
turning it slowly, a little earth,
checking the smooth skin for pockmarks
and rot, or signs of unkind days or people,
then sliding them gently into the plastic.
whistling softly, reaching with a slim, woolen arm
into

poem

for you
i trace
the
letters
of my
name
in the
air
with my
pinky
like a
gold
necklace
like a
signature
on a
grain
of rice
in a
little jar
eve
the night
before
like a
dusk
like